The picture

“Is that your real smile?” he asked as he raised his iPhone to take a picture of me.

I have never been good at pictures.  It’s as sure as a dog drooling at the dinner bell – the sight of a camera causes me to show all of my teeth, open my eyes as wide as possible, and throw my head back into triple chin territory.

“I guess. I don’t know. I’m no good at this.”

I wished he had snapped something while I wasn’t looking. Something covert. It was my fate to be the first bad picture of a woman he ever took.

We had just watched a parade of beautiful women walk past. Women who had spent hours in hair and make up for the fashion show that night. I had spent less than an hour, as I usually do, on myself. Hair in braids, glasses instead of contacts, minimal make up. I’m alright with that. It’s not a lack of self-confidence that makes me hate to be photographed.

I just don’t know how to look spontaneously happy.

Over the past couple of days, we had talked. A lot. I had been nothing but completely honest with him. I trusted him with things that I haven’t trusted in writing. We talked about relationships, addictions, dreams, and whatever else friends talk about when there are no children or time constraints involved. I never gave a second thought to showing him myself with my words, developing an image that showed the negative and the positive. 

But when he started looking at me, to preserve that image, I felt completely unsure of myself. 

Exposed.

WHAM. Done.

The therapy. It is tough. I'm often left all thought out, cried out, and tired out before I can open this page and begin to write.

But it's helping.

I'm supposed to be making connections. That's my long term homework. It's a hard assignment for me.

There are reconnections that I'm enjoying, and some that I'm not so much. It's good to get back to a friend you drifted from unnecessarily. A good friend.

But connections are hard for me. Trust is hard for me. Depending on someone is hard for me.

All I really want in life is to feel like I matter to the people I care about. It sounds simple, right? But it's not. There is this widely held notion that I cut off relationships with a cleaver. Just put them down on the chopping block and WHAM. Done.

It's partly true. I did call my ex-husband on Valentine's Day and tell him it was over. A seven year marriage. WHAM. Done.

But it's not like I didn't talk until I was blue in the face before that. It finally got to the point where if I felt like I was any less important, I would just drown.

I do try and tell people what I want or need. I do try and communicate. I think in the past, I've been too worried about pleasing people and not coming off as pushy or demanding. I think that I poorly communicated and then would just finally break. I also think that I had expectations far above what they should have been and then just plowed ahead to make my life meet them, whether the people around fit into them or not. Ahem, pushy.

It's just that there comes a moment when I can't stand one more ounce of pain and disappointment and I break. I lash out at what I see as the cause of the pain, and I break free of it. Not ideal, I know. It's how I have survived so far.

That isn't going to happen with Kevin. I know I matter to him. He shows me. He listens to me. He talks to me. We fight hard. We love each other harder than we fight. It is quite obvious that I am important to him.

And now there are children. There is mattering to someone, and then there is being a mother. There is no kind of being needed like the being needed of being a parent.

These holes I have are being filled. I know that I have to fill them myself too. I have to start mattering enough to myself, whatever that means. Or maybe it's that I have to give myself the right relationships to know that I matter.

I have spent the past several years feeling guilty that I didn't feel sorry enough for broken relationships and things people mistakenly blame on me. I'm done with that. I don't feel guilty. I'm not sorry. I'm incredibly happy. I have finally done what was right.

Just in case I needed affirmation on the decision that I'm done shouldering guilt and letting myself assume that I'm just an asshole - I had a dream.

I was in my old house. There were a lot more rooms than when I actually lived there, and they were full. Every room was full of people I was trying to take care of. I was roaming from room to room just letting people down because I hadn't been able to get whatever food they wanted or they were cold or they wanted a different view or whatever. I ended up back in my living room, drinking and crying when new friends walked in. It was Liz and her husband. They had come down from Brooklyn because they heard I had a great place to stay. She handed me a tissue while her husband went into the kitchen and got some more beers. Then, she looked around and said,

"Shit, Marty. Your old friends suck."

Harsh, I know. But dreams, at least my dreams, are often extremely exaggerated. The sentiment is there, though. It's time to make connections. Connections that I won't feel the need to WHAM and run from. It's way past time.

Deliberately

I'm not going to lie. 2012 sucked giant donkey balls. 2011 wasn't that much better.

Declaring that 2013 is going to be better just seems like a dare to the universe to whack me even harder than ever. Not something I want to even tempt.

So, I will declare only what I know will happen.

In 2013, I will turn 40. There won't be any complaining from me. I feel good. I'm lucky to get to turn 40. 

In 2013, Christopher will start kindergarten. I don't know where, and I don't know that I'm altogether alright with any of it. It causes me more anxiety than I would like to admit.

In 2013, Colin will start at Arts Together. I'm happy we have two more years to be there.

In 2013, Mallory will start her last year of high school. So we have one starting preschool, one starting kindergarten, and one starting her senior year. 

In 2013, Kevin and I will have been married for seven years. How is that even possible?

There are goals I have for 2013. I want to keep the house neater. I want to be in the 140's before I'm 40. I want to have my the way I eat when I'm counting points become more natural for me - have it not be a diet, but just the way I eat. I want to sew more. Write more. Play more. Sing more.

I want to be more present in my life in 2013. Aware of my children and their needs. Aware of my husband and his needs. Aware of my friends and their needs. And of course, aware of myself and my needs. 

It's so easy for me to just get stuck in my head. It doesn't take much for me to curl up like a pill bug and roll into my little hole. I'm going to let that be alright if it happens deliberately, but I'm going to try not to let it happen with me unaware.

In 2013, I will try to live deliberately, making thoughtful choices in my body, my mind, and my soul.

It's not a resolution. At least, not a New Year's resolution. It is a goal. One that my whole life has been leading up to. I think I have the tools to reach it finally. 

I guess we will see.

The jar

Today I put money in a jar for judging myself. It's my work. For myself.

Every time I judge myself or think, "I should . . ." I'm supposed to put money in a jar. The only problem with it is that when I put the money in the jar, it starts a vicious cycle of, "Why am I such a dumbass that I keep being so hard on myself and having to put money in this jar? I suck at this."

Oh, wait. More money in the jar.

I'm not sure this is really working that well.

The weight of it all

Back in April, one of the things I decided to do in the healing process was to take better care of my body. To not take my health for granted and to celebrate aging.

Because, you know, some people don't get to. Age, that is.

I stopped dying my hair so that I could watch the grey come in, and I actually kind of like it. It's interesting. I started getting waxed regularly, which is another story for another day. And towards the end of April, I joined Weight Watchers.

There has never been a time in my life where I needed to lose enough weight to do something like join Weight Watchers. That was part of the reason it took me so long. I didn't want to admit that I needed to do something I considered drastic.

I set a goal of 35 pounds by September 9, 2012. That's tomorrow. And unless I lose seven pounds in my sleep tonight, I didn't quite make my goal. However, I'm pretty happy with the 28 that are already gone. I even bought a two piece to take on our trip. I'm not going to look 18 again in it, but that's not the point.

The point is, I'm going to look like a 39 year old mother of two and look extremely happy in it. And I'll be praying that my boobs don't fall out of it in the pool. Because let's just get it out there that the girls haven't joined in the dieting quite as much as I had hoped they would.

Yesterday, I had to weigh my English Setter, Aja, to get a prescription filled for her. I stepped on the scale without her and then stepped on again with her. As I put her down, I realized that I was putting down all of the weight I have lost since having Colin in 2010. Losing it gradually kept me from appreciating just how much better I feel. Picking up Aja and getting to set her back down again made the weight loss pretty tangible in an instant.

The best part of finally joining Weight Watchers isn't actually the weight loss. It's that I finally feel like I've learned to eat right. I've cut out at least 80% of the sugar I used to eat, and I feel so much better. I've added back more fruit and vegetables than I've ever eaten, and cut out the carb laden snacks and dinners. I've learned to make decisions about what I eat - that everything I put in my mouth is a choice. A choice that will be in line with my desired lifestyle or out of line with it.

The past few months have been about laying down the weight I've been carrying and making decisions that are beneficial to the life I want to have. That is, of course, only a little bit about dieting, and a lot about moving forward. But I probably didn't have to tell you that, did I?

Whims. Grace. Luck. Acceptance.

It began on a whim. August always makes me long for change. Summer isn't welcome anymore at my house. There are coughs and colds to keep us from the pool. Friends are traveling. Sister is busy with summer reading and band camp. Every morning, the boys pelt me with,

"Can we watch TV?"

Yes.

"Do I get to go to school today?"

No.

"Where is Daddy?"

Work.

"Can I have some yogurt with cereal on it?"

Yes.

In writing, the words are neatly spaced and quiet. In person, all questions overlap each other in rapid fire succession. No matter how I dodge them, one always manages to graze me, causing me to lash out, growling at them to just give me a minute.

I always want something to change in August.

With the beginning of preschool (finally!) this week, I am now getting dressed everyday, which is new for 2012. It is my change in August so far. I will get up, get dressed, and leave the house everyday no matter how sad I am or how lonely I feel. There is life to be lived.

Back to my whim. My whim was school. Being one to detest school, I was delighted to finish college and never look back. Now I'm almost 40 and wondering what I want to be when I grow up. But I don't want to decide on a whim.

So much of my life has blown in and out with the changing seasons and a shrug of, "Why not? What else am I going to do?" I've fallen into opportunities by tripping over a little talent, a little more skill, and a lot of luck. Fall finds me dragging a Fender Rhodes into back alley night clubs, and by Summer, I'm arranging for the symphony and playing for a little crowd of 10,000.

There is no grace to what I accomplish. I stumble into success much like I run into walls or fall over trying to zip my boots.

This time, I want to plan. I have this desire to make goals and figure out a graceful way to reach them. Saving the whims for trips to the park or a mid morning doughnut date with my littles, I would so much like to reach 40 with a plan in place.

Or, if not a plan for graceful entry into my midlife, then I would like to reach 40 with the peace of accepting my midlife just the way it is. Maybe that is goal enough.

In which I blog about blogging. Again. Sorry.

So. You want to start a blog. Or maybe you have already started a blog. Good for you. Everyone who wants to blog should absolutely do so.

I'm no expert. I have been blogging what is considered a "long time" now. That's funny to me, because I'm still pretty much just swimming in the same little pond with a handful of readers and no ambition to change that.

However.

I have advice for you. You, the newbie. You, the brave soul looking to open yourself up to the internet and see what happens. I have some advice which I offer for free and which you may take or leave. It is what it is.

1. Determine why you want to blog before you start. That doesn't mean you have to have a business plan, an outline, or flow charts of all possible outcomes. It means that you should know if you want to be a storyteller, a memoirist, a reviewer, a tip giver, a fashionista, a cook, a crafter, a parent, or whatever else you might strike your fancy.

You can be more than one at a time. You can evolve from one to the other. You can add or subtract reasons as you go. But know when you start, what your heart's goal is.

Here's why. People want to know who they are investing their time and feelings with. If you are going to be a storyteller, then tell me stories. Don't tell me a tale of your life one day and then offer me a sponsored post about coupons the next day. I will feel betrayed and never come back. If you are going to be a cook, then give me wonderful recipes, and do tell me about your family and life and why you like to eat this. Then I am invested, but I knew from the start that you are going to teach me how to cook.

It's about the transparency. You will hear that a lot if you start going to conferences. Authentic voices. Honesty. No one likes to feel like they have been duped.

2. Determine who you are willing to let pay you for your work. Even the people who "just blog" and do so well deserve to be paid. We pay for television. We pay for music (or we should). We pay for the art on our walls. The stories we read also deserve to earn a living for their authors.

You can be paid a variety of ways in the blogging world. You can post ads. You can write sponsored posts. You can do giveaways. Or so I hear. Honestly, I don't really know how you get paid because it's not on my radar. I do know that you need to be careful about where you sign away your license though.

Here's why. Companies aren't paying you because you are a fabulous and creative writer. They are paying you because in doing so, they think they can sell more product. They are investing something in your blog because they believe there will be a return on their investment. There isn't anything wrong with that, but I'm not going to connect as deeply with a writer who sprinkles in links and advertisements as though they are just natural parts of the essay. In fact, I'm going to click away and not come back because I will feel used.

Freelance writing gigs exist. If you have the know how, then you can get them. If you don't, then hire an agent. But if you want for people to take you seriously as a writer, then don't let a product be the driving force behind your blog revenue (excluding sidebar ads, of course). Know your strengths. Not all writers are good business people. That's fine. If you want to have a beautifully written blog that earns a living for you, but you don't know how? Get help. Be patient, get help, and don't dilute your voice by becoming a brand ambassador. It will feel terrific at first to get attention from companies, but I guarantee you, making a connection with a real person and knowing that they care about you and love you? Feels a whole lot better than knowing that a company loves you. Because they don't. Not really.

3. Be alright with who you are online. You are okay. Maybe your blog is small. Maybe your blog is big. What matters is that you are getting the satisfaction of creativity or community or revenue that you want out of it.

You can have thousands of Twitter followers, but if you don't have ten who you could call up, on a real phone, and talk to when you needed them, then what's the point? Because even if you are blogging solely for business reasons, you have to have a network in order for your business to grow. So make friends. Make connections. But don't let the number be your driving force.

Here's why. If you focus only on the numbers and stats, then you will miss the value of the connections you have made. Be alright with your 19 blog hits. Connect with the 19 people who read your post. Be alright with someone else having 19,000 blog hits. They are obviously doing something to which people are drawn. Go there, see what it is. Enjoy it.

Give yourself the chance to enjoy the community instead of competing with it. It has been said frequently that there is room enough in the blogosphere for everyone. It's true. You just have to find a place to root. Then you can grow high enough to spread your branches.

There you have it. Stuff I think about while I'm cutting up fruit for the week. Or while I'm sewing. Or trying to sleep.

I'm okay. You're okay. We are all okay. Just be clear about who you are and what you want. Then go for it.

It's totally worth it.

Back when I worked and Fluevog was king

What defined me before I became a mother? Was it my job as executive director of a non-profit organization? Was it my private piano studio? Was it my public performances as a musician? Was it my stunning good looks and sparkling personality?

No, I think not.

It was my boots.

I've been wearing boots since I was four years old. My first pair were sort of a tan, camel color with rubber soles. I would stuff my jeans into them and zip them up. At least, that's how I remember it. Boots, jeans, and my favorite striped shirt.

Fast forward to high school. It was the 80's. I had little grey ankle boots dubbed 'the elf boots,' and more traditional calf high boots. Most notably, I owned a pair of purple suede boots. Bright purple. Suede. Awesome. I loved those boots.

All grown up now, I still am drawn to boots. I wear them all year. In my first pregnancy, I rocked my boots up until the very end. With Colin, my calves got chunky and I had to move to some Dansko clogs. Without being able to wear my boots, I felt like a frumpy dumpy the whole winter. Boots make me feel dressed. Put together.

I love my Rocket Dogs and my Destroy boots (which, do they only make kids' shoes now?), but most of all, I love my John Fluevogs. The Fluevogs are fantastic, fantabulous boots that are an obscene amount of money. I know this to be true now because after giving birth, you apparently develop a keen sense of don't-spend-any-money-on-yourself. At least, not on a pair of fabulous boots.

So tonight, I'll just window shop and reminisce. Even on clearance, these won't be my boots, but I can love them anyway.

And because it's the now thing to do, I will tell you that I didn't receive any compensation or free stuff for professing my love of John Fluevog. If he offered, I would gladly step off of my bloggy high horse and jump into materialistic blogging with both feet. Both feet looking FABULOUS in those boots, of course.

Katy Perry and I can both laugh at ourselves

Have you seen Away We Go? The movie where Maggie Gyllenhaal plays the crazy attached mama?



If you are like me, and hate to watch video while reading blogs, what makes me laugh so hard is when she says that she wouldn't want a stroller because she loves her babies, "Why would I want to push them away?"

I laughed my fool head off at all of her scenes. The first time you see her, she is standing up with her foot on a chair tandem nursing a toddler and a not so small infant - but the stance she has taken is like that of some woman warrior. It's really funny.

As I was laughing at her, Kevin turns to me and says, "You know they are making fun of you, right?"

"Well, duh. That's one reason it's so funny. Especially since I never expected to end up in the throes of attachment parenting."

One thing I have learned to do since my super sensitive days of high school is to laugh at myself. I can be pretty ridiculous. Especially when I have a soap box or a cause. I'm not apologizing for that, I'm just saying that it can be on the comical side.

So yeah, while I think that Sesame Street was absolutely right to pull the Katy Perry and Elmo video where she comes off more as a pedophile than a playmate, I still think this SNL clip is hilarious.



I like her a little more now, now that I know she can laugh at herself too.

It's gonna have real strings and everything

There is a piece in my puzzle that doesn't quite fit. Somewhere deep within my almost crunchy, granola, tandem nursing, babywearing, sewing, baking, and all things mothering persona lies a GAMER.

I love video games. If you can drive it, shoot it, smack it down, or blow it up, I'm all over it.

Karaoke, dancing, guitar, drums, whatever. I love that too. In fact, the only thing I'm not really a fan of are the games that have the first person vision - you know, when it's like you are looking over the gun? Not a fan.

Also, not really a fan of the Wii.

I know. Blaspha-freaking-mee. I can't help it. There are multiple problems with it. The first being that Mal Mal can whoop me at just about everything there is, and that completely goes against the grain of my competitive nature.

The second is that I'm a total klutz, and being able to do amazing things with my thumbs? That was a good thing for me. I LIKE the thumb controllers. This whole get-up-and-really-do-the-motion thing isn't really good for me and my lack of grace.

Of course, there is an exception, and that would be the Wii Fit. I kind of dig getting to see the little yellow circle on the yoga poses and feel myself getting better aligned. That's nice.

I digress.

For middle school graduation, we bought Mal Mal a copy of Beatles Rock Band for the xBox. I was thinking we already had the guitars, but I was wrong. The guitars I had were for the PS2, which is deader than dead. So, we headed to Game Stop yesterday to trade in all my old PS2 stuff and get some gear for the xBox.

Don't you love how I'm just now getting to the point of this story?

Here I am, mama and stepmama to my three beautiful children. I've got my littlest in a lovely ring sling, looking all peaceful and attached, and what am I doing? Why, I'm dumping out my bag of PS2 games - most of which are ridiculously inappropriate for a house with kiddos. The dude raised his eyebrow at me and almost sounded scolding when he told me that they didn't sell Grand Theft Auto San Andreas in their store. What can I say? I like to shoot things. In games. Just in games.

The funniest thing though was when he tried to convince me to wait and buy Rock Band 3 because, "It's just like learning to play real instruments." His pitch was that the guitars had REAL strings and the keyboard had something like 34 KEYS!

Heh.

He had no way of knowing that my other oddly shaped puzzle piece is the part of me that performs and records. Sure, I like playing Rock Band, but I don't think I need the REAL fake guitars and the REAL tiny keyboard.

I just found it funny.

Okay, so there actually isn't a point to this story. I'm just trying to get back to the writing. And for the second straight night in a row, Colin has actually gone down by himself, leaving me to type freely.

Of course, I could be playing a game instead . . .

The return of the purse

Remember when my purse was stolen the week before Colin was born? And the lovely Holly Aiken offered to make me a new one like my favorite old one? And then the Fayetteville police found it in the bushes the next day? But I went to pick it up on Martin Luther King Day, and they said, "Nope. That part of the building is closed today"?

Well, I finally went back down there to pick it up. I just hadn't had the energy or time to pack up the boys and head down I-95 to get my beloved bag. However, a few weeks ago, Papa and I loaded up Christopher and Colin and went to Fayetteville. This time, I called ahead of our trip. I'm smart that way.

It was a good thing I did because they only return property on Tuesday and Friday. We had been planning to go on a Monday.

We rearranged our trip to Friday and headed that way. I called again when we hit the road, just to double check. Again, it was a good thing I did, because even though the woman in the property office, or whatever they call it, knew I was coming that day, she had decided to leave early. I reminded her that she had told me on Monday that she would see me Friday at 1:30 to pick up my purse, and she agreed to stay.

How nice.

Of course, she could have left a lot sooner if we hadn't had to stand in the lobby for 25 minutes waiting on someone to walk up to the window and ask us why we were there and if we needed help. Or, if she had answered her office phone. Not really my issue though.

When she finally came out with the box, she asked me for my ID in order to claim it. Snort.

"It's in my purse. In that box."

When she opened the box, I was woefully reminded that it had been raining the weekend my purse was stolen. The mold that had grown in the box was over powering and made my eyes start to water immediately. Most everything in the purse needed to be tossed, and I was afraid the purse would too, but it survived.

I put it in the washing machine on hot when we got home. I figured I was going to have to toss it anyway - if it couldn't be cleaned like that - so what the heck? It came out perfectly. Looked brand new. I swear - I love Holly's bags. They are so freaking amazing.

The bonus part of the trip, and certainly the most random? There was a Salvador Dali exhibit in Fayetteville while we were there. I talked Papa into stopping and seeing it. It was his illustrations of Alice in Wonderland. Who knew? In Fayetteville of all places. It's an army town, not an art town. But it was a nice exhibit.

So that's the conclusion to the stolen purse. As you can see, now that Colin has decided it's alright to sleep without my boob in his mouth and without being completely on my lap, I have two hands to type and can possibly catch up here a little bit. Yay.

It's only fun if you play too

What's a girl to do when she's looking to regain her blogging mojo? Why, answer a list of random questions of course. Stolen from one of my most favorite bloggers, Miss Zoot, who stole it from someone else before herself. That's the way it works, you know.

30 Questions:

1. It’s 2AM and you are not home. You are more than likely:
Wishing I was at home and in the bed.

2. What’s the last thing you spent more than $100 on?
Not counting trips to the grocery store, I'm pretty sure that would be clothes for the boys. I have a slight Gymboree problem.

3. What do your bank checks look like?
Standard issue style from the bank. (Same answer as Zoot)

4. Where did the shirt you are currently wearing come from?
Swag from the music store where my ex-husband worked. Guitar strings.

5. Name something that will be on your Christmas wish list:
There are a couple of Anna Podris' paintings I've had my eye on for awhile. If they haven't been sold, I'll probably ask for one of those. Or, a more modest request would be a new Holly Aiken bag - one with the birds. I love those.

6. What color is your toothbrush?
White.

7. Name something you collect and tell us about it.
Local artists. I love to have original artwork in our home - especially that is created by North Carolina artists.

8. Last restaurant you ate at. Who were you with? How was it?
Torrero's with Kevin and the boys. It was fabulous. We hadn't eaten there in several months because of the whole no-dairy diet I've been on.

9. Who was the last person you bought a birthday card for?
My oldest nephew, Jacob. Unfortunately, it is still on my kitchen counter and his birthday was this past Monday. Even worse, my oldest niece's was in May, and I haven't sent hers either. I suck.

10. What is your worst bad habit?
Drinking waaaay too much diet coke. (Also Zoot's answer)

11. Name a magazine to which you subscribe?
Everyday Food

12. Your favorite pizza toppings?
Fake pepperoni, black olives, and mushrooms.

13. Whose number were you looking up the last time you used a phone book?
I think I was looking for a doctor in the Yellow Pages.

14. Other than family, who is the person that you love most?
That's a hard one, and kinda silly one. But I guess I could narrow it down to Susan.

15. What is the last thing you cooked?
Last night I made beer braised sausages and warm potato salad (from Everyday Food).

16. Name something you wouldn’t want to buy used?
Training potty

17. Which shoe do you put on first?
Maybe the left? That's the contact I put in first.

18. What is the last thing you remember losing?
Some LLL papers. But I found them this morning.

19. What is the ugliest piece of furniture in your house?
The cheap Target dresser in our room that I'm stuffing Colin's clothes in for now.

20. Last thing you bought and ended up returning?
Some pants for Colin.

21. What perfume/cologne do you wear? If none, why?
None right now because of the baby, but Kevin gave me some for Christmas a couple of years ago that I really like. I don't remember the name, but the bottle is plaid.

22. Your favorite board game?
I like Dominoes, but there's no board.

23. What was the last board game you played?
Card game, actually. BS with Mallory.

24. Where did your vehicle come from?
Smithfield. A Jeep dealer.

25. If a movie was made about your life what would the theme song be?
"Broken Things" by Julie Miller.

26. You’re sad, who can cheer you up easily?
It was always my granddaddy before he died. Now, it would be Kevin.

27. What was the color of the bridesmaid dresses of the last wedding you went to?
I have no idea. Black maybe?

28. What house cleaning chore do you hate to do the most?
Cleaning the blinds. So we didn't put them back up after the new windows went in. Ha.

29. What is your favorite way to eat chicken?
Fried, of course. With biscuits.

30. It is your birthday. You hope the cake is?
A mint chocolate chip log cake from Baskin Robbins. With lots of flowers and decorative icing. Yum.

Feel free to steal this too. Let me know if you do; I would love to read it.

Communing, not competing

That big pit of mommyblogging quicksand seems to have grabbed a hold of my ankles and doesn't want to let go. Competition. I've said so many times that I blog because I want to, not to make money, get free stuff, or to feel loved and important.

It's easy to say that. It's harder to keep it going.

My four year blogoversary came and went without me even batting an eye at it. My BlogHer Ads have been up for over three years. I've blogged for and left the SVMoms Group. Two BlogHer conferences under my belt and a ridiculous amount of swag later - I'm still just me.

I guess it's time for that personal pep talk again. The one where I remind myself that it's my choice to keep this a small time operation. It's my choice to not give my posts up for free to a group who made money off of them. It's my choice to keep my little BlogHer ads up just for the feeling of belonging to that community and not because I'm going to maximize my SEO anytime soon.

Still. I feel like maybe there should be yet another button. Yet another group of bloggers who band together and say, "This exists for my benefit. I choose to expand it or to not expand it. I work as hard as I want to on it, and my traffic and exposure reflect that work or lack thereof. I welcome the community, but I don't do it for the fame and fortune. I am not competing with you - I am communing with you."

As everyone gears up for BlogHer again this year, I get those twinges of longing. But what I'm really longing for is the desire to do more with my blogging. And it's just not there. I don't have the desire to use this space as anything other than what it is right now. I need to be alright with that. I am alright with that - I just need to keep reminding myself of that.

I am ready for a little change though. Some sprucing up. Maybe a new template. I would like to move off of Blogger and onto my own domain, which I have shamefully owned for over two years and done nothing with it. Again though, I just don't have the motivation to put the time into moving it. Plus, I know that I would likely lose most of the readers I have now if I broke this link. I don't know. It would be nice to have new digs.

So what about you? Are you happy with where your blogging life is? Do you wish you were doing more? Are you satisfied with the relationships it's brought you? Do you wish you could buy more than a latte a month with your ad revenue?

I'm curious.

In which I bare my penchant for long analogies

I think about birth daily. Even though I am personally done giving birth, I can't put it out of my mind.

I want to tell Squeak's birth story over and over again. He was born in the water. I find myself grinning as I almost whisper this to people. I can't help myself. It was truly the most amazing experience in my life, and I want to share it.

I want to share it without guilt. I don't want to feel guilty for being so thrilled with it, and I don't want other mamas to feel guilty if they didn't have the same experience. Guilt is based in shame and judgment, and is no way for mamas to better themselves and support each other.

Here's what I think.

From my house to my momma's house, the best and most direct route is I-40. Plain and simple. Get on I-40, drive for an eternity, and end up at Momma's house. It's the best way to get there, but the last time we went, there was a rock slide on the NC/TN state line on I-40.

We had to go around. We had to divert from the best route in order to get where we were going.

We still got to Momma's house. We were more tired, used more gas, and it took more time, but we got there. We were grateful that there were other routes to Momma's house so that we could still get there safely even though there was a rock slide.

Do you see where I'm going with this?

What if someone had just given us wrong directions? What if there was a gas station or a restaurant on the route around I-40 that printed maps without I-40 on it? Just to get us to drive by their business and become customers? What if the only directions we were given never even mentioned that we could just stay on I-40 unless there was a rock slide?

Isn't that entirely different?

If you don't need to go around the rock slide, then someone should be giving you directions that go from point A to point B without all the side roads. And by side roads, I mean interventions, in case you haven't jumped on board my analogy yet.

All of us mamas are just following our maps. We are doing the best we can for ourselves and our children with the information we are given.

The more we share our birth stories, and share them proudly - ALL of them, not just the ones who stayed on I-40 - the more we empower the mamas-to-be.

I am proud of all the mamas I know, and I want to hear every one of their stories. The ones who gave birth via c-section. The ones who gave birth via induction. The ones who gave birth at home. The ones who became mamas via adoption.

It's about becoming a mama. That's all. Yes, I do believe that the more we can help mamas-to-be stay on the interstate regardless of what their maps say, the better. But I absolutely do not believe that we should judge each other for the different paths we all took in getting to be a mama.

Let's let go of the guilt and start sharing our stories. Let's let each other feel proud of bringing our children into the world, and at the same time, let's help all the mamas-to-be find the best route for birth.

/soapbox (for today)

Lonely doesn't mean alone

I forget that I should never whine about loneliness or a lack of friends. Even though I might feel that weight bearing down on me from time to time, to voice those feelings (and indeed, they are just feelings and not necessarily reality) only plays injustice to those who are here for me.

In whining about how much I miss my friends who live here in this box with me, I also ignore the fact that this box keeps me in closer contact with people who have been in my life practically forever. Including, but not limited to Susan and even my momma. Sure, I give my momma a hard time when I find out life changing information on her Facebook page, but really, I'm quite glad that she has a presence on the internet. It gives us a chance to be in each other's daily lives.

There are new friends for new developments in life. That happened after my divorce, after I remarried, and certainly after I became a mama. I have friends here in town from my La Leche League group who I would shave my eyebrows for or even consider giving up Diet Coke for. Well, at least the eyebrows part.

I guess I just have a hard time with the change in climate of friendships. It's not surprising. I have a hard time with change in general. Especially change that is incremental. Rather than riding out whatever storm or hard times there are with people, I tend to just detonate the relationship and walk away from the wreckage.

Now. Aren't you glad you're getting to know me? Doesn't that sound lovely?

All this to say - lonely doesn't mean alone. There are some wonderful people in my life. Lonely means that I isolated myself for a time and needed a kick in the pants to get back up again. I'm getting back up again. Next week.

So expect a phone call or a text or Facebook message. There are too many people who are here in the flesh or wherever they are in the flesh for me to sit around being lonely.

I know these things. Sometimes I just need a good whine.

Yes, I still blog here

Gratuitous picture of my beautiful boys. Bird always wants to hold Squeak. It's sweet and a little dangerous all at the same time. He's going to love his little brother to death if we don't watch out.

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Remember that last post? The one with the bullets? With this bullet in particular?

• I don't feel well. I've had a low grade fever all week, have some sort of weird rash on my legs and back, my skin aches to the touch and itches, and some of my joints hurt. How weird is that? I'm almost embarrassed to call for an appointment because those symptoms are just lame. But dude, I really don't feel well.

Yeah. The next day, I couldn't walk without help. We headed to the urgent care and found out that I had a nasty case of shingles.

Fair. Not. All that work to be back up and going right after Squeak's birth was hosed. I was down for the count for at least a week and have just now, almost 3 weeks later, gotten back to being able to handle a normal day of activity without my leg crying out in pain at the end of the day. The not very creative way to put it is that it completely sucked.

The salt in the proverbial wound is that my leg, which is currently one of two parts of my body that aren't pudgy (the other being my wrists), and is my husband's favorite part of me, is pretty scarred up now. I'm not sure if it's going to go away. I suppose only time will tell. I hope so, but I'll take the scars over the pain any day.

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This morning, Squeak and I are headed to our La Leche League meeting. Poor Bird is sick again, so he's staying home with his daddy. Bird had to be picked up from preschool yesterday, and by 5:00 this morning, I had him in a lukewarm bath trying to get his fever of 104 to break. He's better this morning, but I'm grateful that Kevin stayed home to help. Yesterday was not easy.

Anyway, I've been thinking about La Leche League and wondering if I might want to become a leader. In theory, I would love to. I'm just not sure that I'm "LLL enough" to be a leader. I'm pretty moderate in my parenting philosophies if you were to average them out. As in, we vaccinate on schedule for the most part, but an artificial nipple will not touch Squeak's lips. As in, we co-sleep until the baby is ready to move, but eventually we are going to do some sleep training if we need to. Basically, we do what works for our family, and at the end of the day, I think that might be "LLL enough," but I'm not sure.

I really believe though, that moms need support and encouragement to breastfeed successfully. If that is something I could do, I think I would like to. I'm a little fearful of the commitment also. Sound wishy washy? Yeah. I know.

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It's March, and I haven't written about Bird's second birthday. So many people just flat out ignored his birthday this year. I wasn't one of them, but I didn't do as much as I would have liked. But it hurt my feelings for him - being ignored for your birthday is rotten, even if you are only 2 and don't realize it yet. Hurts my mama heart.

That's all I'll say about that now. He deserves a full post for his big 2 year old day.

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Amazingly, I got to type all of this in one sitting and didn't have to hold any children while doing so. If I don't stop now, that will no longer be true. So I end here, with way too much left to say, and a severe lack of editing in this wad of words. My apologies.

Biting the bullet

There is a point that is reached in blogging - a point of no return from whatever has been keeping you from writing. It is at this point where we turn to the cop out of all blogging techniques: bullets.

I am at this point of bullets.

• Bird turned two. I have pictures and stories about his second birthday, but they aren't here yet. I'm working on it. He turned two just two days after Squeak was born. I can see it now - the little brother teasing the big brother that his birthday comes first. I'm considering just lying to them and telling them they were both born on the 25th. Split the difference.
• Squeak had his two week appointment earlier this week. Not only has he regained up to his birth weight, but he has also put on a pound. He is a big tub of squishy baby love.
• I don't feel well. I've had a low grade fever all week, have some sort of weird rash on my legs and back, my skin aches to the touch and itches, and some of my joints hurt. How weird is that? I'm almost embarrassed to call for an appointment because those symptoms are just lame. But dude, I really don't feel well.
• Wednesday, at the grocery store, the nice lady handing out sushi samples asked how old Squeak was. When I told her that he was 2 weeks old, she exclaimed that I looked "great!". She followed that lovely compliment up with this, "I mean, you chubby, but you not 2 week old chubby. You like six month chubby," grinning the whole time. I could hardly stop myself from laughing out loud before I could get my sushi and get out of there. Or waddle my 6 month chubby self out of there, as the case may be.
• I broke my new phone. Because I suck.
• Our new urologist's name is Dr. Weiner. Because I am 12, I laughed and laughed before I realized the other people in the room were not laughing with me. Then I apologized for being 12.
• I cannot stop eating Kara's homemade granola bars. Can. Not. Stop.
• Need to insert my foot in mouth on this post, because my gut instincts were right. Some times people are just what they seem to be on the surface. Probably more times than not. But for whatever reason, Kevin and I both have the fatal flaw of assuming that people are good no matter how many clues they give us up until the time it completely bites us in the ass.
• My stolen purse? Recovered in Fayetteville, which is about 90 minutes from here. Cards and phone are gone, but my license and keys were still there. We tried to go pick it up before Squeak came, but the evidence room was closed on MLK Day, which they neglected to mention to us when they said, "Come anytime between 8:00 and 5:00, Monday through Friday." The other postscript to that story is that Holly Aiken is amazing. She found that post and offered to remake the purse for me for free. Because she is amazing. I'm waiting to take her up on it until I see what condition the original purse is in. Maybe it's alright, or maybe they used it for an ashtray. I won't know until I can make it back to Fayetteville when the evidence room is actually open. I've been a little busy having a baby and all.
• My husband is awesome, and has been doing so much to help out with Bird and Squeak and making sure dinner is on the table every night. He rocks.
• After a holiday season of watching "A Charlie Brown Christmas" waaaaaay too many times, Bird now calls all jazz, "Brown music," which I will no doubt have some explaining to do if he says that in certain situations.

I suppose that's enough for now. Life is crazy. I can't believe I'm the mom of two boys now. I can't believe we're done having kids. I can't believe my own life's checklist is getting back to finding some time to do my own recording. I can't believe I got to have the birth experience I so deeply desired. I can't believe I'm still rambling on when I could be using this time to actually bathe. I smell.

Pictures soon, I promise.

You can hang it on your wall

There was an interesting article in the paper this morning. Recently, a banker here in Raleigh was convicted in a ponzi scheme. He and his family have disappeared, and last week, all of his belongings were auctioned off to recoup some of the money he stole.

A Mercedes convertible went for around $107,000, and a diamond wedding ring was sold for around $170,000. There were several "big name" handbags that sold for a couple thousand each, and some designer shoes that seemed to have been in my size. Oh, darn.

The article in the paper this morning focused in on the "artwork" that was sold though. To be specific, the Thomas Kinkade "paintings" auctioned off to the highest sucker. I mean bidder.

One of the paintings was sold for $15,500. Wise, the rogue businessman, paid $85,000 for it originally. Apparently, it was so expensive because Kinkade himself painted it. Which is such an absurd thing to say in the first place. It's hard to even make a joke about it because it's so stupid. A painting is worth more because the painter actually painted it. That's hilarious.

The woman in charge of fine art at the auction house had this to say,

"Thomas Kinkade paints pictures that are very pleasing and are accessible to a large number of people. He's painting decorative pictures; you can hang them on your wall."

Again, it's hard to turn that into a joke. It's so funny on it's own. "You can hang them on your wall." That's one of the benefits of a Thomas Kinkade painting. How can you not snicker at that?

The article also goes on to say that Kinkade "offers a touchstone for art buyers who want security." I'm kind of wondering though, in an auction where people were willing to pay $2500 for a used Louis Vuitton handbag, where is the security in an $85,000 painting selling for $15,500?

It doesn't really matter. The paintings are complete crap, and Thomas Kinkade is a crook. His company sold paintings to gallery owners who were required to sell them for a minimum retail price while the company, and even Kinkade himself, undercut those prices on cable TV. The gallery owners sued and won.

My father-in-law likes to buy original artwork. It is one of his endearing qualities. He also likes for it to be from local artists. He's a cool Papa. His tastes vary from mine, and that is alright. Sitting in my living room one day, he looks up at "Bird Tropolis", by Anna Podris, and says, "Well, that's pretty, and I know you like it, but I like scenes. You know, paintings of scenes." I told him that technically, it was a scene, a cityscape, if you will, but he wasn't buying it. That's totally fine. There's a wide span between people with different tastes and those with no taste.

Of course, I think if Thomas Kinkade makes you happy, and you don't know any better, then by all means, hang him or someone who paints what he tells them to paint on your wall. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder after all. What grabbed me about this story is that this banker was obviously attempting to "invest" in art by purchasing Thomas Kinkade paintings. Which is ridiculous.

I admit, one of the reasons I saved my pennies to buy Anna's work is because a gallery owner who knew that I already liked it told me that she was the Raleigh artist with the greatest potential for investment. I liked that little bit of information. Granted, if you tried to take one of my paintings from me now, I would never sell them for any amount. I love them, which is the real reason to buy original artwork.

We also have a Jason Craighead and a Bob Rankin. Kevin and I both loved the Craighead at the exact moment we saw it, and quite frankly, the Rankin just went nicely in our guest bathroom. There is also one of Keith Norval's owls upstairs by Lovely's room. Some other artists grace our walls, but from out of state.

I can't tell you if anything we've purchased will go up in value monetarily or not. What I can tell you is this:

• I know who painted it.
• I like who painted it.
• The money we paid for it stayed in our community.
• The money we paid for it went to support a real artist.
• We like the work.
• We intend on teaching our children that artists, like musicians, deserve to be paid well for good original work.
  

All of which is in direct contrast to the painter of light. Who makes me shudder.

Medic!

My throat feels like I swallowed a rabid cat and it's trying to claw it's way back up again. My chest feels like I've got an anvil sitting on it. This is the second upper respiratory infection I've had this pregnancy, and I would like to state for the record, that it sucks.

Thank you, and good night.

We interrupt this program . . .

Again, not up for much today. Kevin took the kids out for the morning and ran errands. I lay on the couch like a lump. A big lumpy lump.

Now, we are trying to watch the Carolina game on TV, but the commercials are frustrating me. The commercials for primetime TV are scary and not something I want my toddler seeing. So I keep jumping for the remote and hoping that the game on the next channel over is on while the non-family friendly commercials are on.

We did see one commercial though that makes me happy. It's the commercial that features Kevin's work and the amazing research they are doing. I'm so stinking proud of him. Yeah, the hours are long, and I hate it when he has to travel, but he is doing work that is impacting lives positively. And he's smart. S-M-R-T. Smart.

Time to fix dinner. And by fix dinner, I mean order pizza. It's that kind of night.